Put Out the Light E-Book

Ethel Lina White

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Ethel Lina White is a lover of intriguing stories. One of these is „Put Out the Light”. This is a terrible, exciting story of love, disappointment and jealousy, bred in a gloomy house on a hill. Florence Pye read in the cards, „Death to an old woman. Her prophesy came true, silently and violently in the depths of the night. What Miss Pie didn’t foresee was that she would find the body first.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE SHADOW

II. THE VICTIM

III. AND SO TO BED

IV. THE CRUEL LOOKING-GLASS

V. LIONS

VI. NOCTURNAL

VII. DRESDEN CHINA

VII. THE JOKER

IX. AFTERMATH

X. ACCOUNT RENDERED

XI. THE SHADOW GROWS

XII. A BUSINESS TEST

XIII. PRELUDE

XIV. THE WILL

xv. IMMORTALITY

XVI. WOMAN TO WOMAN

XVII. A MUSEUM PIECE

XVIII. ANTHEA'S MIRROR

XIX. VIGIL

XX. MIRAGE

XXI. CASTLES IN SPAIN

XXII. A CHANGE OF HEART

XXIII. CRISIS

XXIV. FLOWERS FOR THE POLICE

XXV. THE FINAL CURTAIN

XXVI. THE DREAM

XXVII. ORDEAL

XXVIII. THE LIGHT GOES OUT

XXIX. THE FOOTMAN'S CIGARETTE

XXX. THE SPHINX SPEAKS

XXXI. INQUEST

XXXII. THE TIDE TURNS

XXXIII. ULTIMATUM

XXXIV. A BROKEN TEACUP

XXXV. BETSY

I. THE SHADOW

WHEN Miss Vine went to bed she was accompanied by her shadow thrown on the white marble wall.

At first, it was a blurred, servile shape, that slunk behind her, dogging her heel. Then it attained her own stature and grew clearer, keeping pace with her as a friendly silhouette.

But, at the bend of the staircase, it changed and became terrible. A monstrous distortion, it shot up–taller and taller–until it leaped over her head and rushed before her, to her own room.

At that moment, Miss Anthea Vine always felt afraid. In the turgid depths of her heart she knew that it was stealing on to search for that other darker shadow, which, one night, would be waiting for her...

By day, Oldtown was a homely huddle of roofs, clustering in a tree-lined valley; but, by night, it was a black bowl filled to the brim with shadows.

Timid, fluttering shadows; squat, swollen shadows; mean, sneaking shadows; starved, elongated shadows; poisonous, malignant shadows, they foamed up in the brew and overflowed the rim, into the streets–hiding in corners, stealing into windows, following people home.

Fighting the shadows, were the lights of Oldtown, which swarmed over the black bowl, like golden bees. It was easy to trace the chain of lamps in the High Street and the glowing dial of the Town Hall clock amid the chaotic straggle of the widely spaced illuminations.

One other light was distinct in character and received definite recognition. Every evening, at eleven o’clock, it glowed from out the left wing of the great pile of Jamaica Court. The porters at the hillside station always watched for it, as it was more punctual than their scheduled trains. In addition, it was informative, for it broadcast a parochial news bulletin.

Miss Anthea Vine was going to bed.

At twelve o’clock, to the stroke, the light went out.

II. THE VICTIM

“THAT’S a woman who’s going to be murdered.” Miss Pye spoke with calm authority, as she poured out the breakfast coffee, in the small dining room of the Cherry Orchard. She was fair, fat and she liked to be taken for forty. A pleasant woman, of strong character and sound common sense, she was fixed of purpose as the Pole Star, although she clouded her issue behind a Milky Way of words.

At the word “murder,” her brother, Superintendent Pye, pricked up his ears. He was bull-necked and massive in build, with great cheeks like ripe plums, and choleric blue eyes. His reputation was that of a good mixer and a competent football referee.

For generations his people had lived in Oldtown, where they had been, originally, landowners, and Pye, himself, was essentially of the soil. His present job was one of Fate’s misdeals. While he was in general request as judge, at every local dog show, the prevalent opinion was that, from long cold storage in Oldtown, his brain had mildewed.

Only his sister, Florence, believed in him; for she worshiped her Maker, in public, every Sunday, but she worshiped her brother, in private, every day of her life.

Oblivious of criticism, Pye’s ambition was static. He yearned to handle a subtle murder-mystery. And all Providence sent him was dog fights and drunks.

At his sister’s words he glanced across his garden, where the friable dark soil was spiked with the green tips of bulbs. On the tarred road stood two young men and a girl, engaged in noisy conversation. The youths presented a contrast in figure, as one was short, and thickset and the other, tall and slender. Both were well-dressed in conventional country style, and betrayed more than the usual correct slouch of boredom.

Only the back of their companion was visible to Pye, but her slim form, in its short tweed suit, held the allure and grace of girlhood. Her grass-green beret revealed short golden curls which glittered in the pale spring sunlight. As she poised on one toe she looked like the Spirit of Youth Triumphant–hovering for one golden moment of laughter, before she winged on her eternal flight.

Youth–never lingering–always passing on.

Superintendent Pye pointed to the girl’s back, with his pipe.

“D’you mean Miss Vine, Flo?”

“I do,” replied his sister. “She’s just asking for it. Carrying on with those boys, just like Queen Elizabeth.”

“No. Queen Elizabeth had quite a good brain–for a woman.”

As Pye spoke Miss Vine suddenly spun round on a slender stem of silken leg, revealing the painted, triangular face of an elderly woman.

He swallowed a gulp of repulsion.

“Murdered?” he grunted. “Well, she’d be the better for it. It might cure her complaint. Silly, vain old maid, pink and hollow as an Easter egg.”

His sister took no offense at his Gilbertian contempt for spinsterhood.

“You can’t call Miss Vine a fool,” she objected. “Think of the fortune she’s made.”

“Not she. Men have made her fortune for her. She’s lucky with her managers.”

“Well, doesn’t it show brains to get men to make money for her?”

“I call it a canker. She squeezes them dry and then sacks them. A very different kind of business woman to our Doris.”

Pye’s face beamed with pride as he mentioned his favourite younger sister–the proprietress of the Timberdale Arms. She had not only been a pretty girl, but, as the widow of Major Law, she had, at one time of her life, been honored by association with a man.

Miss Pye began to collect the china and stack it together on the tray. At a sudden gust of loud laughter from the road, she stood with a teacup in her hand.

“I wonder what she’s telling those boys,” she remarked.

“Some ripe, old-fashioned story, you bet,” grinned Pye. “They say that little lady can go one beyond the limit. Not that I’ve ever heard her. Not in her class.”

Miss Pye’s mild eyes gleamed fiercely behind her glasses.

“Does she patronize you?” she gasped.

The next second she had regained her calm.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “She’s going to be murdered.”

Her brother tapped his pipe over the grate and then stood, spread-eagled, before the fire.

“And who told you that?” he asked derisively.

“The cards tell me, Adam. Every time I lay them out I see the murder of an old woman, by night.”

At the Superintendent’s laughter, Miss Pye crossed over to the window. On the opposite slope arose a vast erection of grey stone. It had no claim to artistic architecture, but it was solid, imposing, and kept up on a scale that advertised wealth. The glass roofs of its conservatories, billiard room, and covered entrance flashed back scores of miniature suns.

It was Jamaica Court–the residence of Miss Anthea Vine–owner of a chain of “Dahlia” lingerie shops and of terra-cotta Munster hotels.

“Is that a happy house?” demanded Miss Pye. “There are three young people cooped up there with that horrible old woman. All of them in her power, hating her like poison. Can you deny that things are ripe for murder?”

Pye scratched his nose. Everyone was familiar with the situation at the Court. Years ago Miss Vine had adopted three children from poverty-stricken homes. Two of these, Charles and Francis Ford, were her third cousins, while the girl–Iris Pomeroy–was an orphan, acquired through an adoption society.

She had surrounded them with luxury and spared no expense over their education. The boys went to public schools, and, later, qualified for professions. But when Charles’ name was on the rolls, and Francis had completed his articles with an architect, Miss Vine, apparently, considered her obligation at an end. The boys were forced to put up their plates in Oldtown, the soil of which was already soured with professional men of long standing. As they did not make enough income to pay their office rent, she kept them chained to her side, as her cavaliers and slaves.

When Iris returned from her finishing school on the Continent, she found herself in a hotbed of rebellion and discontent. All three were gifted with strong wills, good looks and plenty of brains. They wanted to spread their wings and lead their own lives; but, whenever they fluttered towards freedom they found themselves hobbled by economic pressure.

“They must be a precious spineless lot to put up with it,” observed Pye.

Again Miss Pye dissented.

“They’re none of them that. Charles is a regular daredevil, with his ugly face and wicked grin, and Francis is too quiet and polite. Still waters run deep, remember.”

“Well, take it from me, Flo, and I ought to know, the last thing either of them will do is murder the old bird.”

“Why?”

“To begin with, they’ll never unite against her. She’s got them split with jealousy. People take Charles and Francis for brothers, because they’ve got the same name, but they’re only cousins. They say blood’s thicker than water, but, in the long run, it always makes bad blood.”

“You forget the girl,” hinted Miss Pye darkly. “Look at her eyes. She’s one of your moderns, who’d think nothing of banging Miss Vine over the head with a chopper, and then calling it a complex.”

The Superintendent’s shrug advertised his private opinion that he argued with a fool. But he could not resist the temptation of airing his views on his favourite subject.

“Listen to me, Flo. Before you can have murder, you’ve got to have two other things. Motive and opportunity. Now, I’ll grant you those three have opportunity, as they’re on the spot. But, where is their motive?”

“Her money, of course,” replied his sister.

“And how do they know they’re going to get any of it? She’s the sort that never makes a will. If she dies intestate, her money will go to her brother in Australia.”

Miss Pye hung on to her point.

“Well, the girl’s got a motive. She and Miss Vine are in love with the same man.”

“Who?”

“The new young doctor–Dr. Lawrence.”

“And how d’you know they’re in love? Did you read it in the Herald?”

Pye’s sarcasm was wasted on his sister.

“I count on juxtaposition,” she replied. “Every day, he pays a visit to the Court, where he sees Iris Pomeroy. He must be sick of that mouthing old mummy. And think of the opportunities he has of poisoning her.”

“And is it likely that a fellow with no practice would kill off his one good patient?” asked Pye impatiently.

Miss Pye did not continue the argument. Having cleared the table, she took up a pack of patience cards and began to lay them out in the shape of a horseshoe.

“I wonder she dares go to bed, at night,” she murmured, “never knowing if she will wake up again.”

She saw Miss Vine’s wealth as cheese–bait to tempt the rats from their holes in her own larder, or the sewers of the underworld. But her brother only laughed.

“You’ve only got two ideas in your head, Flo. Servants and sentiment. Leave crime to them that understand it. Stick to your Betsy.”

“Perhaps it takes some brains to have a Betsy, at all, these days when every girl calls herself ‘Betty’,” said Miss Pye quietly.

As she counted her cards, she watched the group on the road. Charles Ford had untidy hair, with a cowlick stirring in the wind; but, although he was ugly, there was definite charm in his expression.

His eyes were not in complete alliance with his impudent grin. They called his bluff. One had but to divide his face to read the history of his frustration in two chapters; the upper-half, which supplied the capital, and the lower-half, which denied the labour.

Francis was better looking than his cousin, with regular features and satin-smooth hair, but his nose was too long and his mouth too small. His expression betrayed complete boredom as he stood, silent, while Miss Vine and Charles capped each other’s story.

Presently he betrayed his first sign of animation at the sight of a tall man in grey plus-fours, who was swinging down the road, his hat in his hand.

Dr. Glyn Lawrence was handsome and possessed a Southern poise and grace; it was easy to imagine him dancing a tango or fighting a duel. Yet there was a hint of the Orient in his slanting eyes, drooping lids and thick chiseled lips.

“Here’s your friend Lawrence,” remarked Francis.

He scarcely opened his lips, yet his diction was so perfect that his words were clear-cut and cold as icicles, dropping into the rapid current of Charles’s slurred speech.

Miss Vine’s eye lit up, for her court was never large enough to satisfy her. As she pouted and gesticulated, she always carried with her an invisible companion–her imaginary self. She saw a rose-flushed face, piquant with mischief, soft with the bloom of youth.

“You’ve a smut on your nose, Anthea,” remarked Francis.

Instantly, she pulled out her pocket mirror. In the tiny circle of glass she saw no smut, but two little old eyes, like shriveled nuts, peering through a feathery foliage of artificial lashes.

“You are supercritical, Francis,” she said quietly. “But thank you for your interest. And here’s my faithful Lawrence. Don’t you envy a doctor his opportunities, Francis? He can cure, kill, or kiss.”

“No,” was the prim reply. “I’d rather be a parson. It must be so nice to tell people not to do the things one does oneself.”

“He’d make a dashed good parson, too,” grinned Charles. “We’ve shocked this pure young lad with our smutty tales, Anthea.”

“Oh, darling.” Anthea spun round to Francis. “Sorry I was coarse.”

“Don’t apologize,” remarked Francis in his cool, precise voice. “I’m always interested in the revelation of character.”

Miss Vine’s eyes gleamed between narrowed lids. While Charles charmed her, Francis held her interest. He was never boorish like his cousin, but, under his invariable politeness, she sensed his hostility.

Her smile grew possessive as Dr. Lawrence joined the group.

“You’re the man I want,” she said. “Come up to the Court, Wednesday afternoon, and reassure me about my heart.”

Dr. Lawrence’s smile was too suave, as he shook his head.

“It would be my personal delight to reassure you, my dear lady,” he said, “just as it is my duty to preserve the health of such a valuable member of the community.”

“He means your butcher’s bill, Anthea,” cut in Charles. “I’ve always got to translate this bloke.”

“But,” went on the doctor, taking no notice of the interruption, “I have to operate on Mrs. Learoyd, Wednesday afternoon. Adenoids.”

“Oh–the grocer’s wife?”

“Exactly. May I suggest coming up to the Court in the morning?”

Miss Vine’s eyes gleamed. These were the moments for which she lived, when she directed destinies from her own altitude.

“And may I suggest that another doctor is capable of performing a minor operation?” she said.

“I agree. Williams is probably more capable than myself. Unfortunately, he is also capable of pocketing the fee.”

“In that case,” declared Anthea, “you can charge me double your miserable adenoid charge. But you must come to the Court, in the afternoon. I have two board meetings for the morning.”

“How dare a wretched grocer’s wife stop the way of a guinea pig?” asked Charles. “I used to know Mrs. Learoyd when she was barmaid at the Crown. Pretty woman, eh, Lawrence?”

“I know her only as a patient,” replied Dr. Lawrence stiffly.

“And patients don’t count as women. What have you got to say to that, Anthea?” flashed Charles.

Her face radiant with triumph, Anthea enjoyed the scene. She loved to incite her menagerie to fight, for it stimulated her with a sense of power. If, sometimes, they turned on her, she could always crack her whip.

As she looked at them, in turn, she wondered which was most dangerous. Charles was good-tempered, but inclined to snap. You could put your head into the lion’s mouth once too often. One day, he might, by pure accident, snap too hard...Francis was the intractable tiger, who slunk from her and watched her with unfriendly eyes. Yet, at a pinch, he might prove the most reliant of the three. And what of Lawrence–the graceful, beautiful beast, who never growled, or showed his teeth? He was the unknown quantity.

Inside the dining room of the Cherry Orchard, Miss Pye continued to lay out the cards.

“There it is again,” she murmured. “Plain as plain. Queen of spades, which means an elderly woman. Of course, it should be diamonds, but who can tell what her real colour is? Surrounded with treachery–all the knaves in the pack. Ace and nine of spades, both reversed. It only means one thing. Murder.”

Miss Pye stared across at the great stone mansion which topped the rise. The humble Cherry Orchard was overshadowed by it, like an impudent white dog that dares to stand up to the grey bulk of a crouching beast of prey.

Its chimneys seemed to bristle and its smoke curl upwards with defiance–as though to suggest a plucky little animal that would fly at the throat of its adversary, and hang on until death.

The Pyes–brother and sister–always hung on.

III. AND SO TO BED

AT eleven o’clock, that night, the light glowed, like a beacon, from the dark pile of Jamaica Court. The bored porter at the high-level station, shouted to his mate.

“Eleven, Jim.”

Jim glanced at his watch.

“Gosh, I’m five slow. Not Wednesday, is it?”

On Wednesday night they had learned to expect irregularity in the appearance of the light, although it never failed to go out at the stroke of twelve.

As he moved the hands of his watch on to eleven, he heard the faint chimes of the Town Hall clock, which were only audible when the wind was in the rainy quarter.

For the past twenty minutes, Eames–Miss Vine’s maid–had been busy behind the drawn curtains of the spectacular blue-and-silver bedroom. Although she was never allowed to assist at the rites of the evening toilet, she had to make the preparations and foresee every possible need.

Face cream here. Skin food by the side. Astringent behind, but where it could be seen at a glance. Ice on the plate-glass slab. Strips of plaster, cut into assorted sizes. Powder. Perfume.

The maid took the temperature of the bath, making allowance for slight cooling, and added the correct proportion of aromatic salts. Then she glanced at her watch–for there was no clock in the bedroom–and crossed to the window.

The gesture with which she drew aside the curtains was almost dramatic, as though she were in league with the darkness and were giving a signal to the shadows lurking in the black bowl of the valley.

Although, viewed from the station, the Court rose up as a bleak rock, behind the blinds, it was a stronghold of youth, blazing with lights and vibrant with noise. A group of young people were gathered round the roulette table in the drawing room, shouting against the blare of the loud-speaker. With the exception of a girl, they were greedy youths, drawn to the Court by the bait of unlimited free drinks and tobacco.

A few had an eye to bigger profits–a Stock Exchange tip, or even a furtive fiver, given and accepted, as a boon. Not even the boldest attempted to pluck his hostess at cards, for she played poker too well. Her monetary favours were bestowed on those endowed with the silver tongues of diplomatists, or else the jargon of the gutter. She was only responsive to contrasts. She could assimilate large doses of flattery, and also of abuse; the first was a tribute to her charm, the second a challenge to her power.

According to her custom, at this hour, Anthea was alone in the dimness of the Moorish library. Almost lost in its carven magnificence, she sat at her desk, under one green-shaded light.

In front of her was a sheaf of papers, containing the figures for the board meetings which had taken precedence of Mrs. Learoyd’s adenoids. From time to time she jotted a note on the margin; but for several minutes she had ceased to write.

Her golden head was sunken on her breast, when Charles put his head round the corner of the door.

“Eleven, Anthea,” he said, consulting his watch.

A feature of the Court was its absence of clocks, except in the servants’ quarters. Anthea disliked any reminder of the passage of time, so that it was her secretary’s duty to see that she was punctual for her appointments.

As she made no reply, Charles clapped his hands together, in a pretense to slaughter a moth.

Miss Vine started upright and stared at him blankly. Her blurred eyes made her appear defenseless, and almost pitiful.

“Bedtime, Anthea,” announced Charles.

“So soon? How quickly the time passes when one is working.”

“Quicker still when one’s asleep.” Charles perched on the arm of her chair and threw one hand carelessly on her bare shoulder. From this point of vantage his eyes roved over the papers on the table.

“Been dreaming of your lovers, past and present?” he asked.

She slapped his hand playfully, but her eyes grew shrewd.

“No,” she replied, “it’s for them to dream of me. I’ve been deep in finance. Ah, Charles, this little head. All I have to help me. And so much to do.”

“You need a man,” suggested Charles. “Why not let me in on the ground floor of your next scheme?”

“No, Charles. I trust no man.”

“Not even me?”

“You, least of all.” She tilted his chin with her finger. “You see, I’m rather fond of you. That’s fatal. A woman should always be on guard against her heart.”

“What do you trust? Your corns?”

“Don’t be vulgar. I trust my head.”

She scooped together her papers.

“I’m making more money for you, Charles. Look at all these figures. No, that’s enough. I did not say ‘read them.’”

As she spoke, she locked the documents in a drawer. Charles watched her, while the smile faded from his lips. In that gesture she had put him definitely in his place.

A minute before she had been his puppet, posturing and smiling as he pulled the strings of flattery. His arm was around her shoulders, in careless possession. But her manner of turning a key reminded him, not only that the wealth which surrounded them had been created by her own vision and enterprise, but, also, of his own position.

Tonight she might be the conquest of his curly hair and insolent smiles; but tomorrow he must go to her, cap in hand, to beg for a new pair of flannel bags.

At that moment he hated her with all the force of his young manhood. As he withdrew his arm roughly she smiled up at him.

“What’s the matter, sonny-boy?”

He blurted out his request, like a sulky schoolboy.

“I’m short on my allowance, Anthea. And decency demands trousers.”

Miss Vine pulled his hair.

“Slip them in on my own bill, Charles,” she advised. “Tell Phibbs the old woman will never notice.”

“You, an old woman, Anthea? I like that. Now–how old are you? I mean–how young?”

She probed the mockery of his eyes.

“Young enough to retain my faculties,” she told him. “I’m neither deaf nor blind.”

Then she passed her hand over her brow.

“But–I’m tired.”

The scorn faded from the young man’s smile.

“You slog too hard,” he said. “Why the hell don’t you retire? You’ve all the money you want. What’s the good of it if you croak, and leave it to others, who’ve never made a penny of it?”

Miss Vine’s smile was inscrutable, as she stared at her cousin.

“Are those your true views, my noble boy?” she asked.

“They are.”

“Then you want me to leave you out of my will?”

Charles laughed.

“Now, you’re being funny,” he said. “You bet, little Charles wants his share of pie, with the rest...Only, that’s a long way off. And, honestly, Anthea, it’s a bit raw to be slacking while you are slaving, day and night.”

“And where would you be without my money, Charles?”

He reddened to his eyes.

“In the gutter–where I belong–judging by the company I keep,” he muttered.

His insolence seemed but to amuse her. She loved a clash of wills, because she could always force her opponent to his knees.

“It’s sweet of you to offer me your grandfatherly advice,” she said, “but my health is Dr. Lawrence’s affair. I don’t keep a dog and do my own barking. Ring the bell for Morgan.”

Charles hesitated with his finger on the electric button inserted in the desk.

“You’re not going to keep that girl up late again, are you?” he protested.

“That is my own business.” There was a rasp in Miss Vine’s voice. “I don’t pay a secretary and do my own typing.”

Miss Sally Morgan entered the library with such promptitude that she might have been waiting for the summons, outside the door. She was a pretty girl, dressed in black satin, but her youth and attraction were sunken in her own imitation of the perfect secretary.

Her Spanish heels were too high, her lips too red, the line of her permanent wave too correct. In her endeavour to be efficient, tactful, and resourceful, she spoke only to answer, and always gave the impression of thinking in shorthand.

As Miss Vine took no notice of her, she stood silent, in her employer’s line of vision. Charles knew that this demonstration of indifference was punishment for his interference, and he came to the rescue.

“My aunt–I mean, my cousin–isn’t really asleep, Miss Morgan,” he said. “She’s deep in finance.”

Instantly, Miss Vine picked up a sheaf of papers, which she handed to the girl.

“I want these typed tonight,” she said curtly.

“Certainly, Miss Vine,” Sally assured her.

“You can use this room. Tell Bates not to sit up. You can put out the light.”

“The ideal employer. Always thinking of her servants,” remarked Charles. “Looks like an all-night sitting for you, Miss Morgan. But there–you‘re young.”

Miss Vine rose and put her arm through his, in a possessive manner. She rubbed her finger over his sleeve and spoke in a gentle voice.

“You’re positively shiny, darling. You’d better slip in a new evening suit on my bill, as well as the bags...And now to bed.”

Charles escorted his lady, with his eyes fixed on the carpet; but, at the door, he looked back at Sally. She was already seated before her machine, but she was not typing.

There was a sudden landslip of her pretensions, as youth cried to youth. At the girl’s sympathetic expression Charles lost his crestfallen air, and spoke with his usual impudence.

“Oh, Anthea, shall I give Bates orders to bring Miss Morgan some nourishment, if she’s going to be late? Bread and water is what she really likes, but if you’ve got such a thing as an old bone, she would adore it.”

“Thank you, Charles, for anticipating my wishes,” replied Anthea. “Give Bates his instructions.”

Her smile was acid as she turned to Sally Morgan.

“My cousin is always so generous,” she said. “I believe he’d give away my last penny.”

Charles pretended not to hear the insult as he opened the door of the library with exaggerated courtesy.

Miss Vine’s court awaited her, under the domed roof of the pillared marble hall. The visitors were waiting to bid their hostess “Good night,” for it was the rule of the house that her retirement was the signal for their departure.

Tonight it was plain that she was in her most majestic mood, and had receded beyond the reach of flattery or familiarity. Under the thin arch of her brow–like a strand of copper–her eyes looked blankly into distance.

“Good night,” she said, staring at the roof. “Charles. Ring.”

When the visitors had hurriedly slipped away, she turned to the girl. She was a lovely creature, exotic and overpainted, like a delicate pink azalea.

“Where’s Francis?” she asked.

Iris shook back her long mane of leaf-brown hair.

“How should I know?” she murmured.

“Haven’t seen him since dinner,” volunteered Charles.

“Ah, you never give each other away, do you?” sneered Miss Vine. “Always reminds me of the loyalty of the underworld.”

Dr. Lawrence–who never joined in the general exodus, smiled slightly, in recognition of the hit.

“Here’s your strayed lamb,” he said, as Francis lounged into the hall.

Anthea’s peaked face suddenly sparkled with new life.

“You’ve kept me waiting,” she reproached him.

“I’m frightfully sorry to be guilty of discourtesy,” Francis assured her. “But, I thought you would probably be late. You see, I saw Charles go to the library, and drew my own conclusions.”

The distrustful glance he shot at his cousin was not lost on Miss Vine. She fluttered her lashes, to indicate her consciousness that two young men were jealous of her favours, as she turned to Charles.

“Take off my necklace,” she appealed.

Charles obeyed stolidly. He might have been a robot, wound up for a special duty. Coiling up the string of pearls, he thrust it in his trouser pocket.

The doctor’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the jewels.

“I wonder you trust them out of your keeping,” he said.

“Why?” asked Anthea. “Do you think they might tempt someone to wring my bonny neck?”

“Well–it might be a risk.”

“But Charles always puts them in the safe at night. And I can trust Charles. He’s my heir.”

“But, darling,” laughed Iris, slipping her arm around Miss Vine, “I thought I was.”

“So you were, angel. Francis’s turn tomorrow.”

Miss Vine shook herself free of the girl’s embrace and turned to Dr. Lawrence.

“You see, doctor. I can sleep in safety, because I know I have the protection of three strong young people. If I were to die tonight my money would go to my brother. I haven’t made my will.”

“Very naughty of you, dear lady,” ventured Dr. Lawrence.

“Oh, but I’m going to. Today–tomorrow–soon. Besides, death is still a long way off.”

A long way? Even as she spoke, in the lamp-lit parlor of the Cherry Orchard, Miss Pye laid out the cards.

Charles broke the strained silence.

“So now you’re wise to the position, doctor. Anthea, you’ll lose your beauty sleep.”

With the condescension of a maiden queen, Miss Vine extended her cheek to her three dependents and stretched out her hand for Dr. Lawrence’s kiss. They stood, in homage, watching her stately white satin figure slowly ascend the great staircase.

Half way up the first flight she turned and held up her finger at a burst of dance music, from the radio.

“Shall I come down and dance with you?” she called.

“Yes, do,” they urged in chorus. “We’ll scramble for you.”

“Then–I won’t.”

Shaking her golden curls, she ran up the stairs, like a girl. Her heart was pounding with exertion, but it also beat with triumph.

Young men clustered round her, like moths round a candle flame. She reminded herself that Cleopatra had reached her zenith at the age of forty, which would be an Eastern equivalent of her own years.

The young people stood in silence and watched her slim white figure disappear round the bend of the staircase. Then Francis called after her in his sweetest voice:

“Slip on the top stair, girlie, and break your bonny neck.”

IV. THE CRUEL LOOKING-GLASS

WHEN Miss Anthea Vine reached the bend of the staircase her shadow began to grow. It blotched the white marble walls, and then took its flying leap over her head. Like a monstrous bat, it flitted down the corridor, leading the way to Miss Vine’s bedroom, as though expectant of grim company.

Tonight? It reached the door, flickered, and then sank into the floor, crushed under the heel of Miss Vine’s silver slipper.

It could wait. It began to rise again, to herald the approach of the mistress of the house. A smile was on her lips at a memory of a flushed girlish face, radiant with triumph, as it mocked the desire of youth.

She felt swollen with power. Four suppliants were at her feet, eating out of her hand. They had strength, talents, good looks–but no future. That was hers–because she had what they lacked–her wealth.

They could not afford to let her die. Until she made her will, she was the jewel in their crown.

Her room was in the left wing, beside that of Iris, who occupied what was, in reality, her dressing room. Charles and Francis slept in the same block. This was the intimate family sleeping suite. The picture gallery, the billiard room and the guest chambers were in the central building, while the servants’ quarters were situated in the right wing.

As Miss Vine entered her apartment her maid met her in the doorway. She appeared a pale neutral creature, without a positive characteristic. Glancing apprehensively at her mistress, she flattened herself, to let the great lady pass.

Miss Vine inclined her chin slightly, and the maid took the nod as an invitation to speak.

“Good night, madam.”

Flattered by the servility of the tone, Miss Vine was gracious in her response.

“Good night, Eames.”

The woman closed the door noiselessly and then slunk along broad carpeted corridors, past the blazing well of the great staircase until she reached the right wing. As she opened the small door, which led to the servants’ bedrooms, she heard a buzz of voices and an undercurrent of laughter.

In response to the atmosphere of warm humanity and fellowship, Eames changed miraculously, from a robot, to a vital young woman. Bursting open the first door, she plumped herself down in the middle of a bed, interrupting a game of nap.

“Believe it, or believe it not,” she declared, “but the Queen wished me ‘Good-night.’”

“Go on,” said a housemaid incredulously. “Something must have pleased the old girl. Did you find a man under her bed?”

Their burst of ribald laughter was not heard in the cloistered left wing, where Miss Vine slowly advanced to the long triple mirror. She saw her reflection, slim and white, with the reed-like grace of a young girl. With the instinctive urge to play to some unseen gallery, she extended her arms in a dramatic gesture.

“Maiden’s bower,” she cried. “Chaste and chilly. Oh, Heaven, send me a man.”

As she drew nearer to the glass she flinched suddenly, and then stood still, like a dreamer awakened to an ugly reality.

Almost immediately she regained her self-control, as she spoke in tones of biting scorn.

“Fool. Old fool.”

She peeled her satin gown over her head and threw it on the carpet. Lighting a cigarette, she began to undress, spilling her ash, and dropping each article where she removed it. Filmy garments lay strewn everywhere, like shredded butterflies’ wings; rings and bracelets were scattered, like pebbles, on chair and floor.

Since tidiness was second-nature to Miss Vine, her actions were deliberate. While she had her toilet secrets to preserve, she bitterly grudged her maid her nightly hour of leisure, and wished to make extra work for her in consequence.

Presently, she flung on an orchid wrapper, frothing with ostrich-tips, and went to the bathroom of green-and-rose glass, with concealed flood-lighting, to give the effect of sunshine.

A cloud of steam, perfumed with the scent of roses, hung on the air. But while she steeped herself in the hot, aromatic water, her mind foamed with the figures for Wednesday’s board meetings.

“Having passed a nine per cent preferred ordinary dividend, there remains £43,227 to be carried forward...Net profit of £104,750 compared with £106,667 for the preceding twelve months.”

From her bitten lips and desperate eyes, Miss Vine might have been facing beggary. She reviewed expedients–reconstruction, increased advertisement, paring of overhead.

Best of all–the ax.

Wearily she climbed out of her bath, poorer than when she had stepped into it. Before her stretched the terrible ordeal of her exercises. Sway, swim, rotate, frog. Stooping to pick imaginary daisies–reaching for the moon. No pause–lest she slackened in her efforts–no respite to regain her breath.

She stopped and pressed her hand, for a moment, over her heart. A slim and supple figure was ensured for another twenty-four hours, at a cost of heart-breaking drudgery. Tomorrow and tomorrow stretched out ahead indefinitely, with their threat of more drastic treatment as time gained yet another point in the losing battle.

But she wasted no vital energy in self-pity. With resolute courage, she crossed to the toilet table and faced the relentless mirror. Before her, on the plate-glass slab, reposed a small fortune, converted into lotions and creams.

She was up against yet another stage in the terrible work of reconstruction. As she rubbed an unguent into her relaxed skin, preliminary to a course of facial exercises, she looked around her with appreciative eyes. Possessed of the mind of a jackdaw, she had copied her scheme of decoration from the ladies’ salon in the Kurhaus of a German Spa.

The effect was theatrical, for the walls were of dull silver, and the ceiling blue as an Italian sky, and studded with stars. The silver bed, and silver suite, together with the Persian handmade carpet had been on view, as an advertisement, in the window of an important London furniture store.

Although it was destined for an Oriental monarch, Miss Vine entered into negotiations for a copy. Followed by the attentive manager, she walked into the shop window, as though she were making an entrance upon a stage. Always covetous of attention, she was thrilled to notice that people in the street lingered to watch her, in her rôle of potential customer.

She felt herself indicated as a lady of wealth, so she played up to her audience, trying every chair, looking at herself in the mirror, and posing on the bed.

But even as she arched her brows in criticism, or smiled her approval, she became aware that the faces pressed against the glass were laughing at her postures and her pantomimic conversation. Instantly her pleasure turned to gall. At her furious gesture, the manager had the blinds pulled down.

The first night she occupied her new bedroom she was puffed up with peacock pride of circumstance. It was good then to recall that long-ago day of late summer, when she had first seen the original apartment in the Kurhaus.

She had been on a conducted tour–a youthful outsider in a party of sightseers. She hated those women, because they were different from herself. While she was flat and pale, they had piled puffs of hair and curved figures. Some were married, while others were accompanied by men. She was sure that they derided her solitary state and were holding her up to ridicule. All the time her eyes kept flickering to the faces of the unconscious strangers, to detect the covert smile and glance.

She thought of them again as she gloated over her glittering splendor. Where were they now–those victorious women of yesterday? Probably hemmed in by cheap bedroom suites of pitch pine or fumed oak, paid for by instalments. Handles that came off–drawers that stuck. The ultimate triumph was hers–expressed in her blue-and-silver magnificence.

Suddenly her pleasure was dulled by a familiar sense of uneasiness. She felt that someone was laughing at her. She glanced nervously at the drawn blue satin curtains, for she could not rid herself of the impression that faces were pressed outside the glass. In spite of her common sense, which reminded her that her window was on the first floor, she was obsessed by the conviction that the crowd was still outside, jeering at her.

Miss Vine did not try to overcome her weakness, because an unnecessary effort only drained her of vitality. Since her room could not be overlooked from the grounds, she merely drew the curtains apart.